


Bell

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Series: Kinkmas MMXV [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, Don't Try This At Home, F/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5278676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmas II. Alternate uses for plastic bags, care of the Institute of Life and Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibliolatress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatress/gifts).



“You’d look rather fetching in a gimp mask.”

“So would you, I imagine.”

“ _Ha_.”

There’s a thick lock of hair come down by her temple, twirling when she breathes like an energetic snake. Anneliese de Winter has blood on her cuffs, blood in the cleavage-like line in the middle of the lower lip – Athos thinks he bit her. He thinks she put her face down to him, and kissed him, and it wasn’t a chaste kiss. Her mouth was open, so he bit her tongue. He bit that lip too, and not carefully, but she’d have to have pulled away to give him the moment and a half of calculated satisfaction he was banking on.

She didn’t pull away.

He thinks he licked blood off her chin, and no amount of sleep deprivation will ever be considered an alright excuse for that back in Blighty. He feels rather proprietary about her chin now.

“Ready?” She asks. She turns back her cuffs another time, as she has every other time before this. The constricted flesh above her elbow is striped with purple, and the vein below pops and pounds. A couple more goes around the metaphorical mulberry bush, and he’ll be able to see the fleur-de-lis brand Interpol are so bothered about. What does it mean? Who did it? Eastern European sex cult? Central African religionist sect?

Both his eyes are black, puffed up like twin plums. He sighs.

“Ready.”

The open secret she keeps in her knickers gets very warm and very damp almost as soon as she puts the plastic bag over his head – fuck the five pence charge, the best things in life _should_ be free – and sees his features stretching the fabric. So handsome. So Harrow-Eton-Oxford-Cambridge. “Can you hear me?” She’s starving. Torture never fails to make her hungry, but Constance is far too busy and important to make her a sandwich, and she doesn’t quite understand Milady’s ways yet. “I don’t like spies,” she tells his twisting, bucking body conversationally. “I was one, and I didn’t like it.” She likes this. She likes it like she likes the feeling of sitting down on something blunt, of rocking against something rough that’s characteristic of eighty percent of nice young girls’ sexual awakenings. “And that’s why I’m doing this: because you’re a spy, not because I don’t like you.”

Letting go the convenient handles, she drops into his lap. Athos still can’t breathe. He still can’t see. His universe is white, blue and red, and it’s not the flag of the country he swore himself to, it’s the inside of a shopping bag. It’s the veil through which he views Anneliese while the vessels in his eyes pop like champagne corks. Salvation lies in the semi-circle of oxygenated space below his chin, but the worry is she’ll take the bag off for good then. What on earth happened to her to make her like this? More importantly, what on earth is happening to _him_?

His thighs are between hers now. She lifts the plastic, and he gasps reflexively, and she feeds him two of her long fingers, nails scratching lightly on the roof of his mouth.

“You’re usually the one who ties people up.”

“Yes.”

“Women, specifically.”

“Yes.”

“Although you did go to public school…” She slips her hand back up her skirt, as if checking the weather report. The humidity, he surmises, is still high. “So you probably made one of the new boys pretend to be a toast rack or a pony or something equally strange, or else you got straight down to business and used his tender young flesh like the outside of a sausage roll.” She definitely went to a school where award-winning lacrosse players climb aboard each other’s faces in the changing rooms after practice, but that’s a conversation – a fantasy – for when they know one another a little better. “They all do it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not.”

“Then tell me what you want to do.”

“I’d rather like,” he replies. “To bite those body parts you’d prefer not to have bitten slightly too hard and, when you decide slightly too hard isn’t hard enough, leave you locked in a cupboard with your arms bound behind your back.” This is an odd sort of negotiation, he reflects. He’s never negotiated with someone whose delicately powdered chin he keeps wanting to lick again. He wants out.

He wants the bag.

“Cupboards frighten me,” says Anneliese.

“No, they don’t,” says Athos.

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a Hannukink present, but I didn't want to confuse everyone with multiple titles. I think we can all agree, however, that 'Hannukink' is the best portmanteau ever and ought to be formally adopted into the English language ASAP.


End file.
